


All of You

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Consensual Sex, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, OTP Feels, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rough Sex, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: He could smell his delectable prize from where he hid behind the bushes. He couldn't recall where he'd come from, but he had a far more urgent matter to consider—like the unsuspecting creature that sang so melodiously while bathing in the stream.His prize smelled so good.___________________________________After a hunt, Geralt's mind is temporarily altered by a new witcher potion he was testing. In his heightened, primal state, he hears melodious singing--and follows it to its source.(Originally a Twitter fic at@giddytf2, reformatted for easier reading here on AO3.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 1077
Collections: Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	All of You

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as a Twitter fic at @giddytf2 [here](https://twitter.com/giddytf2/status/1301169739524268032). It's been reformatted to show the paragraph breaks and italics, which I think does make some difference to the reading experience. I've also inserted the GIFs I picked for the Twitter version, including what is possibly my favorite geraskier GIF ever at the end. (Well, until an even better one pops up. 🥰)

He could smell his delectable prize from where he hid behind the bushes. He couldn't recall where he'd come from, but he had a far more urgent matter to consider—like the unsuspecting creature that sang so melodiously while bathing in the stream.

His prize smelled so good.

His prize looked just as good, with dark fur on a lean chest and pale, smooth skin on long limbs. The beautiful creature was submerged in the water from the waist down. Those long legs were bent upwards, their knees breaching the cool torrents.

He wanted to spread those knees.

He wanted to slide between those long, pale legs. Slide deep into the heat between them. That mellifluous voice would sing for him like no other bird could, this he knew with every throb in his chest.

He glanced down at himself. He was nude, but it didn't bother him.

He was—the White Wolf, wasn't he? It was his name, yet not. It was a name someone had bestowed upon him. A name that sent shivers shooting down his spine at the thought of this beautiful, soulful creature singing it.

He was slathered in dark blood. He had killed something.

That meant he was strong. He was the victor. He was a worthy mate for this incomparable creature with that exquisite voice that had lured him here. Was that singing a sonorous call to potential mates in these surrounding areas?

Were there others like him also watching, waiting?

He would kill them all. He would gladly bleed and hurt, if it meant earning the affection of this perfect prize that smelled so delicious, so familiar.

He slinked out into the open. The grass crackled under his bare feet.

The melodious singing stuttered to a shocked halt.

Dark pink, plump lips parted wide below stark eyes as blue as the pellucid sky above. He stared into them. He was drowning in them, as if they saw into him and drew into the light precious things he'd never known he had.

Those sky-bright eyes skimmed him from head to toes.

That mellifluous voice was now making noises that sounded like singing yet wasn't. It was pleasing to hear too.

"Geralt? Why—why are you naked?"

He tilted his head to one side. Geralt? Was that his true name? It felt—right. Especially on the tongue of this beautiful creature.

A low growl rumbled from his chest. The sound made those blue eyes widen more.

"Geralt, your eyes are still black—"

He charged into the stream. Hauled his screeching prize into his arms. He had mere seconds to see that, yes, this beautiful, _noisy_ creature was indeed a man.

A man. A man with light scars scattered across that pale, warm skin. A man just like him—and yet, nothing like him.

He slung the thrashing man onto his right shoulder. He abruptly felt as if he'd done this before, in another time, another place. In life or death circumstances.

That was a possibility: he couldn't allow anyone else to take his precious mate from him. He would die before losing this man.

"Geralt! Put me down _this instant!_ "

Of all the things the man did in retaliation, he didn't expect the energetic punches to his buttocks. It was cute.

He trudged out of the stream onto the grassy bank. The still-screeching man struggled in his grip—until he grabbed one ample arsecheek and squeezed it. The high-pitched yelp made him smirk.

Satisfaction exploded inside him at the intense burst of lust he smelled from the man.

It was simply the man's scent gone more potent than before. A deep, hopeful part of him basked in that, but he didn't understand why.

He was gentle in lowering his catch to the lush grass. He didn't want to hurt this beautiful man. He wanted this man to see him. To—love him.

He wanted this beautiful, incomparable man to love him, when no one else would.

The sprawled man stared up at him with such wide eyes. But when he lowered himself on all fours over him, those long legs spread for him without hesitation. Something in him howled.

"Geralt. Geralt, look at me." The man pointed at his own hirsute chest with a forefinger. "Me Jaskier." The man poked him in the chest. "You Geralt."

He stared down, his head tilted to the side. He let out a curious grunt.

Jaskier? Was that this precious man's name?

Names had power.

It was a monumental moment for him, that this man had willingly shared his name with him. That this man already knew his true name.

"Jaskier." The man— _Jaskier_ pointed at his own chest again. "Me Jaskier. Big-mouthed, hairy bard. Not woman with big breasts you're so fond of."

He frowned at Jaskier and huffed. What was this silly creature saying? Silly things.

He clamped his right hand under Jaskier's jaw, squishing stubbled cheeks with his fingers. Those plump lips formed a fish-like pout—but he still ached to lick them. To bite and suck on them.

"Quiet," he growled.

Oh. He could make the same noises too. Make—words. Words had immense power too.

Jaskier stared up at him in silence for three full seconds. Then those pouted lips wriggled with indignant, squeaky noises.

He let out another hot huff through his nose.

He clamped his hand around Jaskier's bared neck instead.

This time, Jaskier stared up at him in a stunned silence. That exquisite scent of lust billowed like a storm around them. When he glanced down between their taut bodies, he saw Jaskier's rigid cock.

"Geralt. Please."

Even as a whisper, Jaskier's voice made him thrum inside like a lute's plucked strings.

"You don't—you don't want this. You would never touch me, unless I was dying." Jaskier's throat undulated under his palm. "You don't want me."

Geralt's brow furrowed with a frustrated scowl.

Jaskier said such silly things.

There was nothing Geralt wanted more than this. Nothing he wanted more than to touch every part of this beautiful, noisy man, and become the slightest bit beautiful too. To open his eyes at dawn and see the sun pale in comparison to his companion.

There was nothing he wanted more than Jaskier. He had no doubt about this—for even after a bath in the stream, Jaskier still smelled like _his._

He slid his hand up to cup a flushed cheek. He pressed the pad of his thumb to a trembling lower lip. Dragged his thumb across it.

"Mine," he snarled.

Yes, that was the right word. It encompassed everything Jaskier was to him.

Jaskier's lower lip trembled harder under his thumb.

"I've always been yours," Jaskier rasped into his skin, his heart. "From the moment I saw you sitting in that dark corner."

Words had immense power: to bridge the distance between two souls of polar opposites, to bond them over decades. To free them from a cage they never knew they inhabited.

Geralt was looming on all fours over Jaskier, slathered in a beast's blood—but he was falling. Falling fast.

Jaskier caught him with steady hands on the sides of his head. He caught Jaskier's trembling lips with his own, over and over. They caught each other with Jaskier's arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, his arms wrapping even tighter around Jaskier's scorching torso.

He pinned Jaskier to the ground with his hefty weight, but Jaskier simply moaned into his mouth. Clutched at him as if he was going to leave.

Silly, beautiful man—there was nowhere else he wanted to be than here in his chosen mate's embrace.

His chosen mate, who chose him too.

Jaskier's flexible legs encircled his waist.

"I'm going to hurt so much in the morning," Jaskier rasped into his lips. "When you wake up."

He cleaved his mouth from Jaskier's. Raised his head to glare down at the _silly_ , stubborn man.

"No more stupid words," he growled.

The chuckle Jaskier released was anything but mirthful. A glistening sheen erupted over those unguarded eyes, and Geralt hated the wet, salty smell of it.

It was the smell of pain. The worst kind of pain, the invisible kind.

It was the smell of pain that came from the heart.

He dragged his thumb across Jaskier's wet lips.

"No more stupid words," he said, his voice lower, softer. "Say only good words."

Jaskier blinked at him. The sheen vanished from those bright eyes. He dragged his thumb across wet lips that slowly curled up.

"Yours," Jaskier said.

"Good," he rumbled with gratification.

He pressed a kiss to those delicious lips that some distant part of him knew would be too rough for others. The rest of him knew Jaskier was strong enough to take whatever he gave.

Jaskier was strong enough to give as good as he got.

In a single, forceful move, Jaskier flipped him onto his back on the grass. He saw the sky above him. Then he saw Jaskier's beautiful face above his, and he basked in its dazzling smile.

Jaskier held him down with both hands on his shoulders. Jaskier straddled his hips, smile now feral.

"Yours," Jaskier snarled, teeth bared. The wolf in Geralt howled with joy.

He bared his own teeth in an identical grin. Gasped when Jaskier ground down on his aching, hard cock. Jaskier's sinuous body was now also stained with blood. Jaskier looked even more gorgeous to him.

"Yours," Jaskier snarled again. "No one else's."

Geralt was enthralled by the sight of clear saliva dripping from Jaskier's mouth onto an open palm. Overwhelmed by the intoxicating sensations of Jaskier's wet hand around his cock, stroking him slow and firm from hilt to tip.

His cock was big. Even bigger when he was aroused as he was for Jaskier, so hard its tip grazed his clenched belly while Jaskier opened himself up. He couldn't tell how many of those callused fingers were inside that tight heat.

But he could see how much Jaskier wanted this too.

Jaskier's face was rosy with lust and bliss and something else that made Geralt's toes curl in. That made his chest ache with a peculiar pain.

It looked a lot like longing. A longing over twenty years strong. A longing he never suspected—even while it grew in his own heart.

Jaskier seized his wrist and bit his hand when he tried to reach for Jaskier's equally hard cock.

"No," that mellifluous voice growled. "Don't want to come yet."

Geralt's cock jerked at the knowledge of just how on edge his precious mate—his friend, his best friend—was.

He wanted this to last. He wanted this to happen again and again.

He wanted Jaskier, and if that meant being weak, always wanting, always in awe of this beautiful, noisy, mad man, he was fine with that. Jaskier was strong enough to catch both of them whenever they fell.

"Jaskier," he rasped. The name felt right on his tongue. It felt like it belonged there.

Jaskier gripped the base of his cock. Straddled his hips again. Gazed into his eyes as he propped himself up on his elbows, so he could watch himself be engulfed in that tight, slick heat.

Their faces were close enough for a kiss. This one had a tenderness, a solemnity to it that the others didn't. It felt like some sort of wordless vow from Jaskier. A lifelong vow that even song couldn't convey.

His breath hitched when the head of his cock prodded Jaskier's hole.

"I love you," Jaskier whispered. "I love you so much, you big, old crotchety oaf."

Geralt didn't know what astonished him more: the sincere declaration, or the vision of Jaskier taking him in one resolute thrust, head thrown back, spine arched so gracefully under the sunlight.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier's quivering thighs. He needed every ounce of willpower to not dig his fingers into soft skin. To not come _right now_ from the incredible, searing clench of Jaskier's inner muscles, or from Jaskier's unbridled cry of rapture. Jaskier kept grinding on him.

Jaskier had taken all of his cock inside that lean, hirsute body, but it didn't seem enough. Jaskier whined. Ground down hard on him. Swiveled hips he knew fitted well in his large hands.

"Oh fuck, Geralt." Tears dotted dark, fluttering eyelashes. "You're—this is—everything—"

This was. This really was everything to him.

He should have seen it long ago. He should have _seen_ this man—his best friend, his bard companion, his brother-in-arms—long ago, and realized what he could have had all this time.

What he could still have.

He wasn't too late.

Jaskier.

_Jaskier._

_I see you. I know you._

They moaned in unison as Jaskier lifted himself up, until Geralt's cock was almost popping out. Jaskier clung to his taut shoulders with trembling hands. He gripped Jaskier's left hip.

"Jaskier, I—"

Jaskier slammed his hips down.

Geralt was robbed of all words but Jaskier's name as Jaskier's hungry, greedy body swallowed him. Jaskier's downward thrusts were ruthless. Jaskier panted, shook, looked like he was in agony. But Geralt knew how Jaskier looked in real pain.

This was Jaskier in absolute ecstasy.

He was the reason Jaskier was in absolute ecstasy.

"Fuck, I can't—"

Jaskier was starting to falter. He was desperately squeezing the base of his cock that continuously leaked pre-come with his right hand. It was all that stopped him from coming instantly.

It drove Geralt wild.

He sat up and wrapped an arm around Jaskier's waist. He rolled them over and laid Jaskier on the grass, their burning bodies still joined. In this position, he could go deeper inside Jaskier—and Jaskier was feeling every scintilla of it.

Jaskier cried out. Tightened his hand.

All Geralt smelled from Jaskier was utter lust and pleasure. Jaskier folded those long legs around his waist again. Pressed demanding heels to his arse.

"Come on, then," Jaskier panted, hairy chest heaving, blue eyes twinkling. "Show me—what a witcher's _really_ capable of, hm?"

The grin that expanded across Geralt's face was savage. He saw it reflected in Jaskier's arched neck, heard it in Jaskier's sucked-in breath.

He planted his hands on either side of Jaskier's head. Planted his toes in the ground, and leaned down to plant a kiss on Jaskier's nose.

He gave no warning.

He pulled out halfway, then plunged in to the hilt, his blood-stained, sweaty skin slapping against Jaskier's. Jaskier's legs shuddered around him. A harsh gasp burst out of Jaskier's gaping mouth.

Jaskier was using both hands to grip himself, to not come.

Geralt withdrew slower, staring down into Jaskier's blown pupils. Jaskier stared back. Raised a shaking hand to his face. Caressed the skin beneath his eye with gentle fingertips.

"There they are," Jaskier croaked, giving him a tremulous smile. "There you are."

Geralt frowned.

What did Jaskier mean by that? What wasn't there before, on his face?

He was here. He was always here. He wasn't going anywhere, not without Jaskier. Not when he intended to bury himself inside Jaskier, and stay there, until their seams were buried too.

He slammed home.

He savored every moan and whine that Jaskier warbled for him. He savored the sting of Jaskier clawing at his forearm, the sight of Jaskier grabbing his own hair as he plowed into this beautiful, welcoming body.

He'd never fucked anyone as hard as this. He'd never dared to.

But Jaskier wasn't just anyone. Jaskier was strong. The strongest man he knew, who had no supernatural abilities or magic, but looked at a witcher—and saw a friend instead of a monster. Saw a person to love.

Jaskier loved him. Jaskier loved him as he was.

Jaskier _loved_ him.

He shifted the angle of his hips. He watched Jaskier's pleasure-slack face, and he caught the moment he struck that sweet spot inside: Jaskier's heavy-lidded eyes snapped wide. Jaskier stiffened. Clenched _hard_ around him.

"And there you are," he murmured with the rarest smile.

He was unsure what triggered Jaskier's fiery orgasm. The fierce thrusts that pounded that sweet spot? His words? His—smile, that Eskel teasingly claimed would strip decades from him?

Either way, Jaskier was divine in his total submission to his conquered, convulsing body.

Jaskier's back arched off the grass. His piercing cry rippled across the stream. Copious come spurted onto his lithe torso's dark curls. It smelled so fucking luscious that Geralt was on the brink in a heartbeat.

"Geralt," Jaskier panted, irresistible even now. "Geralt. Please."

Geralt's orgasm truly stole his breath. He plunged into Jaskier several more times, then stiffened deep inside, arched over Jaskier. He sensed Jaskier's wide, euphoric eyes drinking his face in. He heard Jaskier whisper his name, as if it was a gift. As if _he_ was a gift.

Jaskier was wrong. He wasn't a gift—Jaskier was. Jaskier was—important to him—

"Geralt?"

He blinked. Jaskier's brow was creased with—worry?

"Geralt, you—you've gone so pale."

Jaskier was touching his face but he didn't feel it. He was still inside Jaskier. But he was cold.

He touched the skin under his nose, and his fingertips came away red and wet.

Oh, right—the experimental potion he took, giving him one last wallop for a job well done. It was just his luck he couldn't enjoy the afterglow with Jaskier.

_I'm fine. I just need sleep._

"Geralt?"

_I'm fine, Jaskier._

_Stay with me, and I'll be fine._

He laid his head on Jaskier's hirsute chest. He didn't care that Jaskier's come was sticking to his cheek. He listened to Jaskier's quickening heartbeat.

"Geralt? Talk to me, please."

"Stay," he croaked.

He shut his eyes.

When Geralt opened his eyes, he was lying on his back on his bedroll. He was still nude, save for the blanket covering him up to the chest. He could smell traces of old blood on his body.

He could still smell traces of Jaskier's come on his skin.

He remembered everything.

He sat up in one smooth movement. The blanket slipped down to his groin. He'd been wiped clean at some point, but his heightened senses ensured he could detect the slightest hints of lingering scents on him.

His heightened sense of smell ensured he could hunt Jaskier anywhere.

But he didn't need to—Jaskier was still here.

Jaskier was still nude like him, sitting with his arms around folded-up legs, far enough that Geralt would have to get up and walk over to the troublingly silent man.

Jaskier was sitting with that pale, smooth back facing him.

He didn't know what to do, to say. Was Jaskier angry with him? Did Jaskier regret in the cool light of dawn what they'd done in the raging heat of lust?

Because he didn't regret it. Not one second of it. Not with Jaskier.

He'd waited multiple human lifetimes to finally be happy.

"Jaskier?"

Jaskier didn't respond. At least not for a few strained minutes that made Geralt's guts roil. He knew Jaskier was awake. Jaskier was listening.

He wished Jaskier would turn around and face him. Look at him. See him—and know there was nothing to fear.

"Jaskier. Talk."

Jaskier's shoulders rose and fell with a shaky breath.

"Just get it over with, Geralt."

Jaskier's voice was devoid of any emotion. It was the biggest clue Geralt had that whatever it was Jaskier was expecting him to do, it wasn't what Jaskier wanted at all.

"Do what? Tell me."

Jaskier seemed to shrink into himself. Those lean arms tightened around those long, powerful legs Geralt wanted around his waist again.

"Tell me I'm a monster. Tell me to fuck off." Jaskier sucked in another shaky breath. "Because a potion made you want me. Because you don't."

On another day, Geralt might have just stomped to Jaskier and smacked that silly, precious head. But today was a day he never thought he would live. It was a day he knew without doubt that Jaskier wanted him. Loved him.

And Jaskier had no idea what the potion actually did.

It was supposed to be an enhanced cat potion. Jaskier had no idea that the potion had the low risk of temporarily regressing him to a primal state.

It couldn't control him, or change him into a different person.

It couldn't create desire.

It certainly couldn't create love.

He pushed away the blanket. Stood up. He was prepared for Jaskier to flee from him—but Jaskier remained where he was.

Jaskier didn't want to leave. Jaskier thought _he_ wanted that.

The beautiful, noisy, _silly_ man.

He sauntered across the grass to Jaskier with light steps.

He knelt down behind Jaskier. This close, there was no denying the wet, salty scent wafting from Jaskier's averted face. He hated it more than ever. It didn't belong anywhere on Jaskier.

Jaskier's hands were clenching into defensive fists, readying for an attack. For punishment.

Jaskier remained.

It was the encouragement Geralt needed to do what his heart already knew to do: enfold Jaskier from behind with both arms, bury his face in the warmth of Jaskier's long neck.

Hold on, even as Jaskier shivered in shock, and that wet, salty scent intensified.

"Mine," he growled into Jaskier's comforting pulse. "All of you is mine."

Neither of them spoke for a while. The sun crept higher and higher up its cloud-dotted lover, bathing them in golden rays filtered through breeze-blown leaves. A lark began to sing a buoyant tune nearby.

Slowly, cautiously, Jaskier turned around in the refuge of his arms to face him. Jaskier's eyes were damp. Swollen. More red than blue.

Jaskier had probably spent the entire night crying and loathing himself—and stayed. Because he'd asked.

Jaskier stared into his amber eyes.

Jaskier caressed his bristly cheek with a trembling hand. He knew what his bard, his best friend, his beloved was going to say, but hearing the word flow from that talented tongue still pleased him.

"Mine," Jaskier murmured.

It was absolutely true. It was their destiny.

**FIN**


End file.
